Coincidence
by creativetherapy
Summary: The team is called on to help when bodies start appearing stuffed with herbs and sewn shut. Meanwhile, Spencer meets a woman at an Autumn film showing. Whole team, Reid heavy. First Criminal Minds fanfic, please R R For more in this arc, check out "Way Out"
1. Metropolis

Doctor Spencer Reid squinted in the dim light of the darkened theater, scanning the rows of chairs for an open seat. Seats weren't exactly thin on the ground, even in the small gallery of the old theater house, turned second-play cheap seats. Spencer couldn't understand why. He had been holding tickets to see the film for a month, now. Perhaps others just weren't as interested in German expressionism as he was.

He sidled through the narrow lane of chairs to an empty seat in the center of the gallery. Settling himself, albeit somewhat uncomfortably, into one of the faded red velvet covered seats and glancing at his watch, he began the long process of attempting to relax and let the rest of the day go.

Somewhere between the starchy, dry feel of kernels on his fingertips and the melting, crisp taste of popcorn in his mouth, he felt a subtle tap on his shoulder.

"Excuse me?"

Spencer shifted in his seat to see a woman sitting directly behind him. It was hard to see much in the low light emanating from the screen, but he could make out her short hair and nervous smile.

"Hi." She began nervously, "I'm really sorry to bother you, it's just...I came early to get this seat, see, and, well, you're a lot taller than I am. It wouldn't matter, except there isn't staggered or stadium seating, so...would you mind moving over one?"

The words tumbled out in a low whisper, the woman not seeming to realize that Spencer complied, relocating himself one seat to his immediate left before she had finished her request.

"Thanks." She smiled.

"No problem." He ventured a half smile. "Did you – did you really come early to get your seat?"

"Yeah." She nodded, looking down at her hands, embarrassed.

"The movie doesn't start for another ten minutes, and it's almost completely empty in here. What time did you get here?" Spencer furrowed his brow in curiosity, his voice quirking up at the end of his question in baffled amusement.

The woman tilted her head back and forth, shifting her gaze away from him, as though confiding a secret.

"forty-five minutes ago." She met his eyes again. "I was expecting it to be sold out."

"You know, me too," He turned further in his seat, resting his arm on the back of the chair as he continued his thought. "_Metropolis_ is one of the quintessential films in both German Expressionism and Science-Fiction."

"I know!" The stranger's face lit up with excitement. "I've been waiting to see the restored version on the big screen. ever since it first aired in Berlin four years ago! You know, H.G. Wells actually hated it?"

"Yeah, he originally accused it of 'foolishness, cliché, platitude, and muddlement about mechanical progress in general."

Without realizing it, the young doctor was smiling warmly at the woman in the row behind him. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the seat he had previously occupied.

"I'm Avery." She extended a hand to him, which he shook.

"Doctor Spencer Reid."

"Doctor!" She sounded impressed and amused by the introduction. "Well, doctor, any tall friends joining you tonight, or is my view to remain unobstructed?"

"No," Spencer shook his head. "No, just me. What about you?"

"I had an extra ticket, but nobody wanted to come with me."

"They don't know what they're missing." Reid said seriously.

"Tell me about it."

Silence fell between them for only a moment.

"I'm curious." Reid began "Why that seat?"

"Oh, well," Avery held her chin on the heel of her palm, as she cast her eyes up toward the screen. "The best place to sit in a live theatre audience is about two thirds of the way back, directly in the center. The whole show is designed to look absolutely perfect from that spot. So, I figure it's the best place to sit in general. No screen disortion, no tricks from the sound bouncing around. It's the story-viewing sweet spot."

"Oh, I see." Spencer grinned. "So your seat is going to provide a better viewing experience than my seat."

"Well, we'll have to compare notes." Avery laughed. "Or, you know, you could take my word for it and join me back here in the sweet spot."

Spencer glanced down at his seat and the thin cardboard popcorn box in his hand.

"Yeah, okay."

The pavement glowed warmly in the yellow light of old movie house as the handful of moviegoers spilled out the door and onto the sidewalk. Spencer ran his right hand along the diagonal line of his messenger bag across his hip, flattening a curl behind his ear with his free hand. He smiled placidly as he listened to Avery, who walked next to him, talking as she zipped her coat.

"Yeah, I don't know what it is," she was saying, walking briskly to keep up with Spencer's long strides through the theater doors and onto the sidewalk. "I love the movie so much, but the score just never seems right. And I've seen it with a lot of different scores. Now, this one was good, but Loverboy and Adam Ant? Some things should just not happen." She paused. "Am I rambling?"

"Not at all." Reid responded enthusiastically. "I'm just surprised how much of the film they were able to restore. You know, there's a whole organization dedicated to restoring old films? It's to preserve the history of the film art industry."

"I could get behind that."

The pair stood in awkward silence, their figures casting long black shadows against the glowing pavement. Reid took a moment to evaluate the woman standing in front of him. She appeared tall, but only because of the bright red heels she wore. Her hair, which had appeared short in the theater, was buzzed close to the scalp in thick black stubble. She crossed her arms and scuffed the toe of her shoe against the sidewalk, looking down.

"I, um," she began, "I don't suppose you'd want to grab a late bite. There's this Chinese place just down the street. Not much for atmosphere, but the best Baozi in the universe."

Spencer swallowed, opening his mouth and closing it again as his brows furrowed and relaxed in conflicting thought. A buzz from his pocket broke his concentration. He pulled out his cell phone and looked at it.

"Oh," His voice fell slightly. "I have to go."

"Oh." Avery tried to mask the disappointment in her voice by sounding cavalier.

"It's just, it's work." Spencer tried to explain. "I'm an FBI agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit and the hours are really weird, and -"

"No, it's okay." Avery shook her head and shoved her hands into her coat pockets. "Go ahead. It was nice to meet you."

"You, too."

There was a moment of awkward silence as the two stood looking at each other, Avery seeming to be waiting for something.

"Bye." Spencer said at length, venturing a half-wave as he turned and walked down the street.


	2. Agueweed, Agrimony, Lavender and Sage

"Spence, she was waiting for you to ask for her number." Agent Jennifer Jareau shook her head, laughing as she walked through the main floor of the BAU, flanked by Spencer.

"Do you think?" Spencer dodged an empty chair, twitching his fingers in thought as he recalled the events of the evening.

"Definitely." J.J assured him as she opened the door to the round room.

"What's that?" Derek Morgan looked up from the file he was reviewing on the table.

"Spence met a girl at the movie." J.J explained before Reid had a chance to speak. "Spent the evening talking to her and bailed without giving her his number."

"You think I should have given her my number?" Spencer asked.

"A girl who likes silent films and discussing German Expressionism?" Derek asked "Yeah, Reid, I do."

"It wasn't just German Expressionism." The youngest profiler clarified. "It was more like science fiction in general."

"Can you look her up?" J.J asked, sipping her coffee and taking a seat in her chair.

"I don't even know her last name." Spencer admitted, sitting in his chair and picking up one of the manilla folders. "Just Avery."

"Missed opportunity." Rossi mused.

"Thanks for coming in, everyone." Aaron Hotchner ended the conversation as he walked through the door, followed closely by Penelope, who closed the door behind them.

"What's this about?" J.J asked, picking up her folder.

"This evening, the body of missing Reverend James Autrey was discovered outside the Lighthouse Baptist Church. A week earlier, the missing body Doctor Charles Bertram was found three blocks from the hospital. Both had been dead for several days by the time they were found, and in both cases," Penelope paused, swallowing hard and composing herself, "their torsos had been cut open, filled with a variety of herbs, and then stitched back together."

"Like a turkey." Rossi noted.

"Thanksgiving is coming," J.J noted. "Maybe a political statement?"

"But why a doctor and a reverend?" Derek asked. "I mean, what's the message?"

"Well, they're both caregivers." J. J replied "Both are supposed to put the well-being of others, either physical or spiritual, before themselves. Maybe the unsub felt they were failing at that job?"

"That's an awfully big jump between that and dressing his victims like Thanksgiving dinner." Rossi contradicted.

"Herbs and spices were used in ceremonial mummification in ancient Egypt." Spencer said "Maybe the unsub was trying to preserve them."

"Whatever the case, we need to learn as much as we can about how this unsub operates. J.J and Derek, you check out the church." Hotchner said seriously. "Rossi and I will check out the street where Charles Bertram was found. Reid, you go down to the coroner's office. See what you can find out about the condition of the bodies. We'll wait to interview the families til morning.

Spencer Reid stood in the steel and ceramic morgue, surrounded by the smell of disinfectant and corpses. The coroner handed him a mask.

"No, thank you." Spencer declined. "Olfactory receptors are easily overwhelmed, in a few minutes I won't even register the smell."

"Suit yourself." Doctor Conners the coroner skeptically set the mask on the stainless steel counter top and picked up her notes. Crossing to the table on which the late reverend lay, she turned down the white sheet.

The body was pale, mottled and slightly bloated from the decay that had set in.

"Snapped hyoid suggests cause of death was strangulation." She said.

"He was dead when our unsub cut him open?" Spencer confirmed.

"Thankfully." Conners nodded. "Unfortunately the other victim wasn't. Bruising and blood around the incision suggests he was alive, at least for the beginning."

"Any other differences?" Spencer frowned, looking at the lifeless body.

"The first victim had substantially more bruising, as well as ligature marks around his wrists and ankles."

"It was his first kill." Reid deduced, more to himself than to Conners. "Were any organs removed?"

"No." Conners shook her head, "By the look of the incision, this guy had no idea what he was doing. The herbs were mixed with some kind of salt and packed in around the organs."

"What kind of herbs was he filled with?"

"Analysis hasn't come back on him, yet," Conners said, "but it looks to be the same composition as the first victim – ague weed, agrimony, lavender and sage."

Spencer's frown became more intense. "Thanks." He muttered before stepping out into the hall and taking his cell phone from his pocket.

"Garcia, hey, I need you to do some digging for me."

"I love digging, Boy Wonder," Penelope responded "Unless you mean actual digging, and then no, not in these heels."

"Both the victims were stuffed with a combination of ague weed, agrimony, lavender and sage, as well as large amounts of salt. Now, the salt could have been used to dehydrate them or minimize blood loss during the crime, but I need to know why those herbs would be used together."

"I. Am. On it." Penelope confirmed.

"Thanks." Reid hung up and began his trip back to the BAU to meet up with the rest of the group.


	3. The Doctor's Donations

"Well, we know this guy is in good shape." Rossi said, piecing together bits of information. "Neither of our victims were particularly small or out of shape, so he'd have to be to subdue them."

"With strangulation, we can be pretty certain that he is male." Derek offered.

"And he's organized." Hotchner confirmed. "The choice of victims might have been random, but he would have to have space and time, and know when and where to dump the bodies so he wouldn't be seen."

"Both victims were found at or near where they worked." Spencer noted. "That would seem to indicate their jobs are a part of why they were targeted. So maybe they aren't random at all. Maybe they're connected to our unsub."

"What did you find out about the herbs?" Hotchner looked to Garcia, who had been sitting silently, flicking the spring-loaded flower on the top of her pen.

"Well," Garcia began, "I found they are not difficult to buy in bulk online, however buying them in person anywhere in the area is nigh impossible. So he either grows it himself or, like me, he is no stranger to the great past time of online shopping. As far as what they are used for, there are a lot of homeopathy and naturalist beliefs that link all of the herbs to various remedies for all sorts of things, from cold medications to fungal infections, to you name it. But, they all have different applications and I haven't found any one thing specific remedy that makes use of all these things specifically."

"So, what, that would bring us back to political statement?" J.J asked "That would make sense for the doctor, but the reverend?"

"Many people with a strongly held belief in naturalism and homeopathy also link it to a spirituality, or a connectedness with a higher plane of being."

"So maybe the victims crossed paths with our unsub and somehow offended his philosophy." Derek concluded.

"Rossi and J.J, you go to the church and Autrey's home. See if you can get an interview with the estranged wife. Reid and Morgan, you go to Bertram's home and talk to his coworkers. I want to see how our victims connect. I'm going to touch base with local law enforcement, let them know what we found."

The team rose from their chairs, filing out of the room.

"Reid. Reid!" Garcia whispered loudly, catching Reid by the elbow and keeping him back. "My hot chocolate lover may or may not have told me you have a romantical missed connection conundrum."

"Garcia, it's really not -"

"I'm just saying, I looked up the event online and the tickets were only available through the theater itself and either had to be reserved through the theater website or at the theater itself, so as long as she paid with a credit card, I could -"

"No, Garcia." Spencer shook his head. "I mean, thank you, and I appreciate the thought, but it seems tracking her credit card purchases is hardly a way to endear myself to her. I mean, don't you think that's a little...creepy? Not to mention illegal."

"But...but the distinction between creepy and romantic is in the eye of the beholder, and it's only just south of legal." Penelope pleaded.

"I just...It doesn't seem right." Spencer shook his head. "I'd appreciate it if you'd just let it go."

"But...but..."

Reid was out the door before Garcia could finish her thought, the hopeless romantic in her wilting.

"This is not where I imagine a doctor living." Morgan sounded surprised and unimpressed by the modest apartment set in an older tenement building across from a string of businesses.

"He was behind on his bills." Spencer said, quietly flipping through a stack of envelopes on the table. "Final notice. Final notice."

"So his money was going somewhere." Morgan reached for his phone, pressing speed-dial 1. "Hey, Baby Girl, I need you to work some magic for me."

"My cauldron is bubbling, my sorcerer of sexy." Garcia's voice responded.

"I need you to dig into Bertram's financial records a bit. Tell me where all his money was going if it wasn't going to living expenses."

"Let me check."

There was silence on the line and the faint sound of keys tapping could be heard from the other end.

"Oh, dear." Garcia sounded concerned. "Looks like a lot of the doctor's money was tied up in lawyers battling lawsuits. Looks like in the past five years he's had no less than seven suits against him. Three were dismissed, one was dropped, one settled, two are still open."

"Lawsuits for what?" Spencer asked the phone.

"Looks like medical negligence and malpractice." Garcia said. "Looks like a lot of families were angry about the treatment of loved ones with chronic or life-threatening conditions the doctor didn't properly diagnose."

"What kind of conditions?" Derek held the phone between himself and Reid as they listened.

"Things like fibromyalgia...Crohn's disease...Oof, ovarian cancer..."

"All these things can be incredibly difficult for general practitioners to diagnose." Spencer said. "Often their symptoms can appear psychosomatic or mimic other diseases. It could be he just made the wrong call and the families sued out of frustration."

"That's gotta be tough." Derek said seriously.

"Hold the phone." Garcia said. "It looks like for the past year he has been writing some substantial checks to some kind of museum."

"What museum?" Derek frowned as Reid wandered away, back to the table of envelopes next to the window.

"It's really weird." Garcia sounded confused. "The Museum of Fiber Art and Studio"

"Where is that?"

"Right there."

Derek looked up to see Spencer standing by the table, looking out the window and down across the street.

"We're gonna take a field trip." Derek told Garcia. "Thanks, Mama."

"Anytime, my Love."

"The museum was right across the street, he would have seen it going in." Spencer said as they walked through the doors of the apartment building and down the street a ways.

"But why here?" Derek asked.

"Well, the area has been undergoing some renovation. Maybe he wanted to support local culture."

"Doesn't get more local than your own front yard." Derek conceded.

Derek's phone rang. He looked at the ID screen as he answered.

"Yeah, Mama." He said.

"The plot thickens." Garcia said. "Turns out one of the dropped lawsuits against Bertram was on behalf of a Pamela Mitchell. Bertram was her G.P when she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer almost 18 months ago. Lawsuit was dragged out until it was dropped a few months later, a mere one month before the donations to the museum started. But get this, both Pamela and her husband Geoffrey's names appear as co-signers on the small business loan to get the museum up and running, which was ultimately granted by their only daughter -"

"Avery." Spencer stood in shock in the doorway of the museum.

"Spencer." Avery stood behind tall desk in the gallery, looking stunned.

"Avery?" Garcia's voice sounded equally stunned over the phone. "Like...Avery, Avery? Silent movie loving ship in the night Avery?"

"Thanks, Garcia." Derek responded tensely, hanging up the phone.


	4. Coincidences

"I thought the whole Dr. FBI agent thing was just to impress me." Avery tried to smile, despite the obvious discomfort she felt with the agents in the room.

"How did you know Charles Bertram?" Spencer seemed distant and formal, his demeanor so changed from the night before that Avery was visibly taken aback.

"I-" She started, her eyes shifting from Reid to Morgan, who was walking the perimeter of the gallery, looking intently at the displays. "He was my mom's G.P when she was diagnosed with cancer."

"And the target of a lawsuit your family filed against him after she was diagnosed." Reid clarified.

Avery looked annoyed. "A lawsuit my father filed. I convinced him to drop it."

"And why would you do that?" His tone was aggressive. Avery looked flustered.

"Because..." She searched for her words. "Doctor Bertram was a good doctor and my mother was good at ignoring symptoms. She chalked the early symptoms off as menopause. By the time Doctor Bertram found out and ordered her a pelvic exam, her chances were slim, at best."

"Is that why he wrote you a check every month as a donation to the museum?" Spencer didn't let up.

"How should I know?" Avery asked, defensively. "What is this even about?"

"Doctor Bertram was found dead a week ago."

The color drained from Avery Mitchell's face.

"Oh my God..."

"What're these?" Morgan's voice made Avery jump. She turned her head to see him standing near the rear of the gallery, looking at a small shadow box containing several small dolls.

Avery crossed the gallery to him and stood beside him, looking at the shadowbox. "It's part of an exhibit I'm working on about the use of fabrics and fiber arts in different religions and spiritual beliefs. You know, nuns have habits, priests have albs and raiments. Dolls like that are part of several spiritual cultures, including Hoodoo and European witchcraft."

"You mean they're Voodoo dolls." Morgan raised his eyebrows.

"Not quite." Avery shook her head. "The Voodoo doll as we typically think of it is actually an appropriation and amalgamation of many different variations of spiritual and ritualistic beliefs. These are closer to what the concept of Voodoo dolls was based off of. They're called poppets. Traditionally they could be made out of a number of things – potatoes, twine, sticks – but I stuck with the more recognizable version, which is scraps of fabric, stuffed with herbs. They're carried around for protection and healing."

Derek frowned. "Reid, take a look at this."

Spencer's face clouded as he looked at the doll; the slight, burlap belly stitched all the way along the center, faded shoots of lavender poking out from between the gaps in the fabric's weave.

"What kind of herbs would those dolls be filled with?" Derek asked.

Avery crossed her arms and shrugged lightly. "Just about anything the maker thought had the right magical properties. Lavender. Salt, to ward off some kinds of dark magic... Sage is popularly believed to scare off demons and bad luck."

"What about agrimony and ague weed?" Spencer asked.

"Sure." Avery nodded.

Morgan and Reid looked at each other seriously before Derek said, "Miss Mitchell, I'm going to have to ask you to come with us. We've got a few questions you could answer."

"How's our boy doing?" Garcia sounded worried over the phone as Derek stood outside the glassed interrogation room at the police station.

"I don't know." Morgan didn't know what to make of the situation. "Garcia, what can you find on her?"

"Oh, my love, nothing that would classify her as one of the bad guys." Garcia sounded helpless.

"Grew up more or less locally, had a quiet suburban upbringing with loving devoted parents. University in New York where she double majored in History and Art. A few years working in galleries, museums as a researching aid, before she moved back home and started trying to open the museum. No red flags, no dirty laundry."

"What about the parents?" Morgan asked.

"Dad was an engineer, mom was a high school life skills teacher."

"Life skills?"

"Looks like it was basically Home Economics, and Pamela changed the name." Garcia panned "It's meant to break gender stereotypes and encourage young men to join the class."

"Is there any connection between her and the reverend?" Derek asked.

"Nothing I can find, but I'll keep digging." Garcia answered.

Hotchner, J.J, and Rossi entered the room.

"Thanks, Mama." Derek hung up the phone and faced his team members.

"What's this about Voodoo?" Rossi asked.

"Turns out Bertram and Autrey were stuffed and stitched up like poppets." Derek caught them up to speed. "They're used in various witchcraft and Hoodoo circles for protection. We found some on display in a gallery across the street from Bertram's apartment. That's the owner. Bertram was cutting monthly checks to her, after her family dropped a lawsuit they had against him for medical negligence."

"Any connection to the reverend?" Hotchner asked.

"Nothing yet, but Garcia's working on it."

"Spence need some help in there?" J.J asked.

"He might, but there's something you should know." Derek looked nervously between J.J and Hotchner. "That's Avery."

J.J's eyes widened.

"Avery?" Rossi squinted in disbelief. "Avery, Avery?"

"Who's Avery?" Hotcher looked to between the group. Nobody seemed excited to tell him.

Derek's phone rang again.

"Yeah, Mama."

"What was your relationship with Charles Bertram?" Spencer asked. The tape recorder sat between them on the table, the green light shining steadily.

"I didn't have one." Avery answered.

"Aside from taking money from him every month." Spencer contradicted.

Avery rolled her eyes. "Yes, and I don't know why he sent it. I figured he felt sorry for my family, or maybe was glad my dad dropped the lawsuit or something. I don't even know how he knew about the museum."

"Well, it would be pretty easy to find out about considering he lived across the street." Spencer replied tersely.

"What?" Avery stared.

"You're telling me you didn't know the man who was supporting your museum lived across the street." Spencer accused, his features perfectly stoic.

"I picked the spot because rent was cheap and the renovation in the area was bringing a more art-minded crowd." Avery explained. "The checks came in the mail, there was never a return address."

Spencer leaned forward, lacing his long fingers together and studying Avery's face.

"Can you think of any reason why Doctor Bertram would send you those checks?"

Avery was silent, looking at the corner of the table as she thought. She shook her head slightly.

"After my dad dropped the lawsuit, I wrote a note to him apologizing. He was a good doctor. I wanted him to know that we did appreciate everything he did for my mom, even though my dad was having a hard time accepting her diagnosis."

Calmly, Spencer pulled a manilla folder from his messenger bag, opening it and sliding it in front of Avery.

"Doctor Bertram was cut open and stuffed with herbs like the poppets in your museum."

Avery's face distorted in disgust at the photographs in the folder.

"Oh, God..." She started to squirm, leaving her seat and running to the waste basket and retching.

Spencer turned in his seat. "There are an awful lot of coincidences that you're asking me to believe." He said calmly. "What can you tell me about Reverend Autrey?"

"Who?" Avery knelt next to the waste basket, her face ashen.

The door opened. Derek entered.

"Reid." He said abruptly. Spencer closed the folder while Morgan knelt down and took hold of Avery Mitchell's elbow, helping her to her feet and back into her chair.

"I'll get you some water, ma'am." Morgan said, then looked at Reid and tilted his head toward the door, indicating he should follow.

"What?" Spencer asked defensively once out of the room.

"Spence, she didn't do it." J.J said.

"I know that, but she is involved." Reid countered.

"Spence -" J.J began

"Come on, J.J – With that many coincidences? She may not be killing the men herself, but she knows who is. Where is her father?"

"Paris." Rossi said flatly. "He's been touring Europe for the past three weeks."

"Reid." Derek interrupted. "Avery's mom Pamela kept a blog about her battle with cancer. She updated it up until the week she died. Garcia's going through it now, but everything's in there. She talks about Bertram, about counseling with Autrey, and the launch of the gallery." He fixed Reid with a calm but firm gaze "Her death a month ago is probably what set him off. He's picking targets from the people Pamela called her cancer team on her blog. Whoever is doing this is connected to Pamela, not Avery."

Spencer Reid swallowed hard. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, before closing with a lick of his lips.

"You need to take a step back." Hotchner ordered. "Morgan will be finishing the interview. We're ready to deliver the profile."


	5. Plait stitch

"What was that about?" J.J asked.

"I made a mistake." Spencer evaded.

"You knew we profiled a man." J.J said.

"Our profiles have been wrong before." Spencer said shortly, jamming his hands into his pockets in an attempt to be cavalier.

"You were really harsh, Spencer." J.J said "And you're going to tell me that had nothing to do with the fact that you knew her?"

"Well, the fact is, J.J, I don't know her – I met her once, so can we just drop it?" Spencer quickened his pace, leaving agent Jennifer Jareau dumbfounded in his wake.

Derek Morgan entered the room where Avery sat, head on her palm, looking miserable. He set a paper cup of water on the table before sitting down.

"I'm sorry about that." He began. "I know it's hard, but I've got a few more questions for you."

"I have no idea about any of this." A ragged edge in her voice told him she was emotionally exhausted.

"I know." Derek nodded calmly. "And I'm sorry, but we think whoever is doing this feels connected to your mother in some way, and we think you might be able to help us answer some questions."

Avery looked up at Derek, confused and horrified.

"Your mother kept a blog, before she died." Derek began. "What can you tell us about it?"

Avery shook her head, fighting the lump rising in her throat. "I helped her set it up. She was a teacher, it was what she loved. When she had to stop teaching we thought maybe a blog to let her share her experiences would help with her missing the classroom."

"What did your mother write about?" Derek asked.

"Um..." Avery searched her memory. "I hardly read it. I helped her set it up and taught her how to post pictures and media and stuff, but I talked to her every day on the phone, I didn't feel the need to check on the blog often."

"You talked to her every day. What kinds of things would you talk about?"

"Doctor's appointments, how she was feeling. She complained about dad's lawsuit a lot." She attempted a half smile. "She wasn't happy about it either... We talked about the museum. She loved the artistry of traditionally "female" craft – you know, embroidery, needlepoint – quilting was her personal favorite. I never had the patience for it."

Avery ran a hand over her buzzed scalp, her eyes welling with the memory of her late mother.

"Did your mom ever mention anything about who read her blog? Anything about statistics, or comments she might have received?"

Avery shook her head, laughing a little. "No. No, my mom was brilliant in a lot of ways, but social networking kind of evaded her. I doubt she'd even know if people commented."

Avery looked uncomfortable, shifting in her seat as though debating whether or not to speak.

"What?" Derek asked. "You can tell me."

Avery bit her lip.

"Can I..." She swallowed and blinked hard. "Can I see the photograph again?"

Derek frowned inquisitively.

Avery's voice shook. "It's just...I thought maybe something looked familiar. I need to be sure."

Derek hesitantly opened the folder, removing one of the photos and sliding it across the table, gauging Avery's reaction carefully.

The woman swallowed hard and set her jaw, willing her stomach to remain in place as she stared at the crime scene. She handed the photograph back, blinking hard as though trying to remove the image from her mind.

"That's a plaited braid stitch." She said, somewhere between calm and completely breaking down. "It was popular in Elizabethan needlework."

Derek looked surprised and studied the photograph again.

"Is it common?" He asked.

Avery shrugged. "Anyone with Google and enough time to practice could learn it, but it's tricky. It's not a stitch your average hobby embroiderer would know." She took a breath. "My mom used to teach it to students... kind of A.P extra credit."

"Thank you." Derek said sincerely. "That's huge. Can you tell me – did your mom keep in touch with any of her students?"

"I guess, maybe a couple." Avery responded.

"Do you know any names?"

Avery shook her head.

"I know this was difficult. I'm sorry for your loss. You've been a tremendous help. I'm gonna find someone to give you a ride home."

"Thank you." Avery replied quietly, her expression distant and her body emotionally drained.

"We believe we're looking for a white male, most likely in his early to mid thirties." Hotchner began. "From what we were able to piece together from the victimology, we believe the unsub was obsessed with the late Pamela Mitchell, a former high school home economics teacher who died of ovarian cancer about a month ago, just a few weeks before the killings began. We believe her diagnoses was his stresser, with her death being the trigger to begin stalking and killing his victims."

"Both the victims were mentioned on Pamela Mitchell's blog chronicling her battle with cancer." J.J explained "We believe the unsub is targeting Pamela's support group – doctors, counselors, spiritual advisors -"

"While we're not sure exactly why he's using the method he is, we do think his signature of stuffing the bodies is related to a superstitious belief in magic and healing." Rossi continued.

"So...what, he thinks he's helping the victims?" One of the police officers asked.

"More like erasing the evil that prevented saving the life of a good woman." Rossi corrected. "In his mind, it wasn't the cancer that killed Mrs. Mitchell, but the refusal or inability of her support group to cure her."

"Whoever is doing this will talk about Pamela." Hotchner said. "Though he's not stupid, so he probably wouldn't mention her by name, rather perhaps "a woman he knew" or "a friend." He's deep in the grieving process, and will want to share that with others."

Derek entered the room, nodding to Hotchner.

"Agent Morgan, do you have something add?"

"Our unsub was likely a student of Pamela Mitchell's," Derek announced to the room. "Which means he's a local – either native to the area, or has lived here since at least high school. His fixation on her indicates his mother either wasn't present, or was possibly abusive, and he viewed Pamela as an ideal mother figure."

"He most likely lives or works in an area that would allow him to have some contact with Pamela." J.J said "So we should focus our search within a narrow radius of the Mitchell's neighborhood. He needs space to do this to his victims, so he is either a home owner, or has access to some kind of workshop or storage unit that would allow him a high amount of privacy."

"Now that you've got an idea who we're dealing with," the police chief addressed the room full of officers, "let's get looking."

Hotchner's phone rang.

"Hello." His face darkened as he listened. "Thanks." He put the phone away and looked at the officers again. "Be advised, he has a new victim. Doctor Lillian Benson was Pamela Mitchell's primary oncologist. She was reported missing this morning when she failed to show up for work after two days off."

"He would have had to have had two victims at once, then." The police chief said.

"Possibly." Hotchner agreed. "Or it's possible he didn't abduct Dr. Benson until after he dumped Reverend Autrey, meaning there's a chance she's still alive. It's imperative we find out who our unsub is as quickly as possible, as Dr. Benson's life may be at stake."


	6. Bobby

"You said he was a student of Mitchell's?" Hotchner pulled Derek aside as the police officers filed out of the room.

"Her daughter identified the stitch used on the victims as one Mitchell used to teach her students for extra credit."

"The M.E. said our unsub didn't know what he was doing." J.J. looked puzzled.

"Yeah, well, he might not know anatomy, but he knows how to sew." Morgan responded.

"Has Miss Mitchell left yet?" Hotch asked, a plan forming in his dark expression.

"No, I told her I'd find someone to give her a ride." Derek responded.

"Hold off on that. I want to get a news crew in here and have her address the unsub."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Spencer asked. "If he's abducted someone else confronting him directly could cause him to panic and kill Dr. Benson."

"Or, having the daughter of Pamela Mitchell talk to him could make his grief feel validated." J.J argued. "He could let her go."

"We're not going to stop searching, but we do need to take this chance." Hotchner decided. "Morgan, go see if Miss Mitchell will cooperate with us."

The team left the room, Morgan to speak to Avery, J.J and Hotchner to arrange a press conference, leaving Rossi and Reid waiting.

"You okay, kid?" Rossi sideglanced Spencer, who stood, tall and lanky, flicking his fingers silently in thought.

"I wish everyone would stop worrying about how I am." He answered flatly.

Rossi sighed deeply, staring absent mindedly at the rows of desks in the police department.

"You know," He said at length "Moving on is not the same as forgetting."

Spencer cast his eyes down, letting the words sink in.

"If it had been you," Rossi started slowly "would you want Maeve to still be here, mourning your death, refusing to accept the idea that there could possibly be another decent man in the world with whom she might possibly even be happy?"

"This isn't about Maeve." Spencer's voice cracked slightly.

"No?" Rossi arched an eyebrow, skeptically "My mistake, then."

Avery took a breath, looking out over the podium at the reporters and video cameras. J.J stood at her side, giving her last minute tips.

"It's important that our unsub feel a connection to you." She said. "So talk candidly about your mother. Let him know you understand his loss." She reached forward and squeezed Avery's hand, fixing her with a sympathetic look and reassuring smile. "You can do this."

Avery nodded, licking her lips as she waited for her cue.

"I'd like to talk to the person who killed Doctor Bertram and Reverend Autrey, and who may have Dr. Benson right now." Avery's voice shook. She took a breath and steadied herself, looking squarely into the camera. "I want to talk to you about my mom, Pamela Mitchell, because I know you did this for her, and I know" her voice broke. "I know that you miss her as much as I do.

"My mom loved teaching. She loved her students, and she not only believed, but saw that there was good in every single person she met. She was my best friend. She made me and everyone who knew her feel special. She used to tell me that the greatest power in the world was when ordinary people do good things, no matter how small, for each other.

"That's why I'm asking you to do something good, and turn yourself in. I understand your sadness, and so would Mom, but she would be heartbroken if she ever knew that her death had caused so much hurt and loss for so many others. She liked Doctor Benson. She did her best to save my mom. Please, in memory of her, please, let Doctor Benson go.

"It's hard, living without my mom. Some days, it's so hard that I don't know how I'm expected to keep on doing it. But I tell myself that she's still with me, as long as I keep trying to be the person she raised me to be. I know she taught you a lot about what kind of person you should be, too. So please, ask yourself what she would do.

The light blinked out and the camera man gave the all clear. Avery clutched the sides of the podium and released a heavy sigh.

"You did great." J.J placed a comforting arm around her shoulders.

Hotchner, Reid, Rossi and Morgan stood in the hallway. Through the slightly open door, they could hear Avery addressing the cameras.

Hotchner held his phone in the middle of the group, the speaker on as he dialed Penelope's number.

"Oh Captain, my captain!" She answered.

"Garcia, I need you to make a list of all the names of Pamela Mitchell's students between fifteen and twenty years ago."

"That is a lot of names, sir." Garcia responded, typing away.

"Search all the male students." Hotchner narrowed the parameters. "He would have done well in her class, but maybe not overall, and he probably didn't go away too far to college."

"Narrowing..." Garcia said. "Okay, down to about 40 names."

"That many?" Derek sounded surprised.

"Over a five year span at a public high school on a one semester course?" Garcia clarified "You're lucky it's only forty."

"Any that have homes in or near the Mitchell's neighborhood?" J.J asked.

"Six." Garcia replied. "Two in the neighborhood, and four in neighboring suburbs."

"Well, he wouldn't be married." Derek said. "Any of those single men?"

J.J and Avery appeared through the doorway, J.J's arm still around Avery's shoulders. Avery wiped tears from her face.

"Two." Penelope Garcia narrowed the search. "Darryl Adams, he's a 32 year old web designer. Does a lot of work for city government sites and his online dating profile, which I'm bookmarking by the way, says he enjoys cooking, keeps a tidy home, and likes cats. I think I've found the future Mister Garcia. The next guy, on the other hand, is definitely the questionable bachelor they always pick to fill that one extra seat on the dating game. His name is Robert Hannah-"

"Bobby." Avery said. The group looked at her. "There was a man at my mom's funeral. A few years older than me. He was really torn up. He hugged me and my dad, like I was supposed to know him or something. I thought it was weird he was so upset, but maybe he was just one of those people who loses it at funerals. My dad called him Bobby."

"That could be him." Hotchner said.

"He grew up with his dad who brought home a slew of random women." Garcia informed, "Shows up a couple of times on police reports in his teen years for domestic disputes with his dad's live-in-girlfriend at the time. Went to community college but didn't finish, as his dad died between his first and second year. He lives in the house, and is currently self-employed as a courier for local package deliveries."

"He'd have a van." J.J said "That's how he's transporting the bodies."

"What's his address?" Hotchner asked?

"Two blocks away from the Mitchell's residence. Sending it to you now."

Avery looked crushed, trying to understand how someone who could do such awful things could live so close to the childhood home in which she had grown up so happy.

"And sir," Garcia added "He's got a storage locker just south of the dump sites."

"Understood. Thanks Garcia. Rossi, Morgan, you take a team and head to the storage unit. Reid, J.J, you're with me. We're going to the house."

J.J cast a sympathetic glance to Avery before, in a flurry of activity, the team disappeared from the hallway.


	7. Suburbia and West Hills

The black SUV swung into the driveway of the quiet suburban home, followed by a handful of police cars. Hotch, J.J and Reid exited the vehicle.

Spencer took a moment to survey the surroundings, wondering at how two so very different stories could be written from a quiet town of nearly identical homes. He drew his gun and followed Hotchner and J.J as they peered through the windows of the single-car garage.

"No car." Hotch announced.

The police officers proceeded to enter the house, securing room by room, followed by the profilers, who took advantage of the emptiness to learn what they could about Bobby Hannah.

"Hotch, look at this." J.J called from a room at the end of the hall. The cramped bedroom was sparsely furnished. A bed, dresser, and nightstand accounted for all of the furniture, with the only decoration being a half dozen or so photographs scattered around the room. In each photograph, Pamela Mitchell smiled energetically, sometimes surrounded by friends or family.

"Looks like the oldest is a yearbook teacher photo." Hotchner noted. "We were right. He's been obsessed with her since high school."

"These are all printed on regular computer paper." Reid said, picking up one of the photos from the nightstand. "He probably printed them off Pamela's blog."

"Body!" A shout from somewhere in the house caused the profilers to move into action, following the cries of the police officer into the basement.

Police stood around, double checking the vitals in hopes of saving the lifeless Doctor Benson, and radioing for crime scene units.

"Body's cold." one of the officers informed the team. "She's probably been dead a few hours."

The team left the house and stood in the driveway, bathed in the crisp autumn sunlight that seemed in such stark contrast to the sights and feelings within the house. Hotch took out his phone.

"We got nothing here, Hotch." Morgan answered. "Just storage boxes."

"I know," Hotchner replied. "We found Doctor Benson's body, but Hannah is missing."

"We gotta find him." Morgan sounded concerned. "If he's accelerated this much, he's already looking for his next victim."

"I know." Hotchner replied. "Call Garcia and see if she has a list of everyone on Pamela's cancer team. The sooner we get all those names, the sooner we find Bobby Hannah."

Hotchner hung up the phone.

"It could be that Hannah heard Avery address him and it unnerved him." Reid thought aloud. "I mean, he left without dumping the body, maybe something about her caused him to lose direction."

"She asked him to think of what Pamela would want." J.J recalled.

"Right." Reid nodded. "And what do you do when you want to ask advice of a dead loved one?"

"You visit their grave." Hotchner realized. He jogged quickly to the SUV, opening the door and getting into the driver's seat, his partners at his heels. "We need to find out where Pamela Mitchell is buried. Reid, call Garcia -"

"No need." Spencer replied, his phone already out. He dialed quickly. "I know Avery's phone number – I saw it in the file Garcia sent me when I interviewed her."

He held the phone to his ear, his heart racing with each unanswered ring.

"Hello?"

"Avery, it's Spencer Reid. I need to know where your mom's buried."

"What?" Avery sounded confused and annoyed.

"It's really important. I need to know."

"West Hills Cemetery." She replied.

"The exact location." Spencer clarified. "Where in West Hills?" 

"Section C, row 12. Under a tree outside the chapel. I'm headed there now, no thanks to Agent Morgan. He said he'd find me a ride home." Avery said coldly.

"No." Spencer said quickly, an edge of panic in his voice. "No, Avery, turn around. Don't go to the cemetery."

"What?"

"We believe Bobby Hannah is headed there now, and you may not be safe."

There was a pause on the line.

"Avery?" Spencer waited for a response. "Avery?" 

There was a dial tone as Avery ended the call. Spencer hung up.

"Section C, row 12 of West Hills Cemetery. Avery may be headed there, too. I'll call Morgan and Rossi." Reid didn't wait for a response. His fingers dialed the numbers as the SUV sped through the streets of the quiet suburbia.


	8. Two Stages

The wind rustled over the hill and through the branches of the trees in West Hills Cemetery. The sun, shining warm despite the cool autumn air, caused shadows the color of slate to stretch sedately across the grounds behind the cement headstones and stone chapel.

Along the side of the chapel, ivy grew thick against the stones, the small broad leaves waiving grey-green and creamy white in the breeze.

Pamela Mitchell's grave stood neatly in line with others of its ilk, unassuming and non-descript, except for the newness of it.

The long shadow of a person crossed the headstone, blocking the words "beloved wife, mother and teacher" from the afternoon sun. The figure leaned over, placing a bouquet of flowers against the stone, and standing in contemplative silence.

"Hi, Mom." The words escaped in a ragged whisper.

No sounds could be heard on the hill except the chittering of birds and squirrels, and the gentle shush of the breeze rattling a few early leaves to the ground. The minutes seemed simultaneously eternal and nonexistent in the in the silent graveyard.

The sound of footsteps through the grass broke the stillness.

"I thought you'd be here."

Bobby Hannah turned, knife in hand, expecting to see Avery approaching.

"Bobby Hannah, you are under arrest for the murders of Charles Bertram, James Autrey and Lillian Benson." Hotchner approached, gun drawn and flanked by Reid and J.J

Bobby Hannah's face clouded, distorted by rage and frustration.

"They didn't save her." He spat. "She put her faith in them and they didn't save her."

"This isn't going to bring her back." J.J said, edging closer. "Drop the knife."

"And her daughter..." Bobby Hannah's voice caught in his throat. "That smug bitch! She was the worst of all of them. She had the nerve to call Pamela her _best friend?_ She never advocated for her! She told Geoff to drop the lawsuit – did you know that?" Tears streamed down his face. "She only made those stupid dolls as a joke with Pam – she never believed they could heal her. At the funeral, she said Pam would want us all to just keep on – what, am I supposed to pretend she's not gone? And then she comes here every week, pretending like she cares?"

"We know that you miss Pamela." Hotchner assured. "We know that she was there for you when your dad wasn't."

"Him and the sluts he brought home." Bobby growled. "What kind of family is that?"

"It's not." Hotchner responded. "No child deserves that, and nobody is telling you to forget Pam. But killing is not how she'd want you to preserve her memory."

"Think about Pam, Bobby." Reid encouraged. "Do you really think she'd want these deaths to always be linked to her name?"

Bobby's eyes darted from Reid to J.J to Hotchner, his desperation growing. Hand shaking, he raised the knife to his throat.

"Don't do it, Bobby." J.J pleaded. "Drop the knife."

"I don't want to be here without her." Tears stained his cheeks as the breeze ruffled his strawberry blonde hair.

"Bobby, don't!" Hotchner pleaded again.

Bobby flicked his wrist. The loud crack of a shot rang out through the cemetery. Bobby Hannah cried out and collapsed to the ground, dropping the knife and clutching his foot, which oozed blood through the hole in the top of his shoe.

Hotchner and J.J stood stunned for a moment, staring at Reid, who holstered his gun. A split second later J.J was removing the knife from Bobby Hannah's reach as Hotch was calling for an ambulance.

"Nice shot, Reid." J.J said as she applied pressure to the handcuffed Bobby Hannah's foot. He whimpered and cried out in the kind of pain only known to someone who has survived their will to live.

"I'm not going to let Pamela Mitchell's grave hold the memory of his suicide." Reid explained flatly. "Where is Avery, Bobby?"

"You tell me." Bobby Hannah spat. "Probably spouting more self-absorbed eulogies for the camera."

"She didn't come here?" J.J confirmed

"You probably saved her life." Hotchner said quietly to Spencer, as the sound of first responders rose in the distance, drawing nearer to the quiet hill.

Spencer Reid stood, waiting for the elevator outside the BAU offices. The floor resembled a ghost town as it had been largely abandoned by agents for the night, in favor of families and beds.

Rossi exited through the glass doors, meeting Spencer in front of the elevator.

"Been a few days." He said casually "You talked to her?"

"I accused her of murdering two people." Spencer said wryly, not taking his eyes off the elevator doors. "Is there even anything I could say?"

"You could try, 'I'm sorry'." Rossi offered.

"I don't know..." Spencer swallowed, his eyes searching the wall and the closed doors of the elevator for words to express his thoughts. "When I met Maeve... I had all these plans, you know? All these things I could suddenly see myself doing. When she...died..." He licked his lips. "How... It feels... wrong... to ever hope for those things with someone else... Not even just Avery, just... anybody else? Ever?"

Rossi nodded. The door to the elevator opened, and the two men entered. Spencer pressed the button and the doors closed again.

"I believe it was Anne Roiphe who said "Grief is in two parts. The first is loss. The second is the remaking of life." Rossi mused.

Spencer was silent. The elevator grounded itself.

"Think it over." Rossi suggested as the doors slid open. "Have a good night." He stepped around Spencer, crossing the lobby quietly and heading toward his car.

Spencer stepped out of the elevator, looking around at the still lobby, letting Rossi's words resonate within him.

Avery pressed the back of the shadow box into place, securing the backing firmly before turning it over to analyze the work. Within the small square, lines of embroidery stitches, identified by tiny paper numbers glued under them, showed neatly against cream linen. Avery smiled in satisfaction before picking up the shadow box and crossing the gallery to where a space had been prepared on the wall for it to be hung. Beneath it, a small plaque explained the use of all of the stitches. To one side, photographs of Elizabethan tapestries and needlework, and to the other, a large handmade quilt, decorated in patches with each of the different stitches, and several more. Between the quilt and the shadowbox, a plaque hung with a photograph of a younger Pamela Mitchell, the quilt in her lap, teaching a little Avery how to do one of the stitches. The text beneath the photo gave a brief biography of Pamela, and dedicated the exhibit to her memory.

Avery gazed at the photo and sighed, before returning to her desk. She began the process of logging off and shutting down the main computer for the night, when she heard the door open.

"Sorry, we're closed now." She said without looking up. "I can give you a brochure with the hours if yo-"

She looked up and fell silent. Her shoulders went rigid as she stood, watching Reid standing silently in the doorway, plastic bags in his hand.

"What do you want?" She asked flatly.

"I thought you'd like to know we caught him." Spencer did his best to sound casual.

"I heard." Avery replied. "Is that it?"

Spencer rocked back on his heels, as though trying to decide whether or not to say more.

"You had nothing to do with the murders." He said quickly. "You loved your mom and wanted to make her proud. That's why you wrote the letter to Doctor Bertram – to undo the stress your dad's lawsuit was putting on her. You picked this place to start up your gallery because it was a dream you and your mom shared, and you wanted to find a place you could afford before she died."

The words tumbled from his mouth at a rate he could hardly contain, and he continued as though in fear of the quiet.

"Doctor Bertram was a supportive doctor and donated to the museum because your mother wrote in her blog that anyone wishing to help her could help sponsor the museum, because she was your biggest fan the same way you were hers."

Avery swallowed as Spencer kept talking.

"You shaved your head when your mom was diagnosed to show your support, and you haven't let it grow back, because doing that would be admitting that she really is gone."

Avery looked down, trying to hide the fact that her lip quivered and her eyes were welling.

"The dolls were a joke with your mom, but they were also kind of a desperate last effort because there was nothing that could be done and your only hope was a miracle."

Spencer took a breath as Avery crossed her arms, tightly, almost hugging herself.

"You lost someone you loved and there was nothing you could do to save her, even though you would have done anything. And sometimes, just knowing that makes it hard to breathe, and it feels like the entire world is spinning when it shouldn't, it should just stop. So you try to keep up, because you're afraid if you don't, all those feelings will just consume you."

Spencer paused, his lips moving as though constructing his next sentence.

"And I know how that feels, because I lost someone I loved...more than anything. And it hurts. It hurts so much, even though I did everything right, and... and I'm so sorry. I just hope there's a chance you can forgive me."

A pregnant silence filled the space between them.

"And if there is, then I also hope...you like Star Wars." Spencer added awkwardly.

Avery tried unsuccessfully to stifle a chuckle. She tilted her head at Spencer.

"I prefer Star Trek." She admitted. "Especially after Lucas decided to edit the original trilogy."

"Oh, no, yeah. Unedited all the way. Han shot first." Spencer agreed with all the seriousness of discussing a major medical procedure.

Avery shifted her weight, swaying behind the desk slightly, deciding whether or not to allow the agent to remain.

"What's in the bags?" She asked at length.

"Oh," Spencer held up the bag "Baozi, from the restaurant by the theatre."

"You went all the way across town to bring me Baozi?"

"It's supposed to be the best in the universe." Spencer said, mockingly defensive. "There's enough for two. And Peking duck... if you're interested."

Avery glanced from the bags back to Spencer and a smile slowly appeared on her face.

"I love Peking duck."

Spencer smiled in relief and Avery crossed the gallery, taking one of the plastic bags from Spencer's hand, and locking the door behind him, turning the "Open" sign to "Closed".

"So," Spencer said "History of fiber arts. Tell me about that."


	9. Epilogue

**three months later**

Spencer Reid moved carefully through the hallway of the dilapidated building, his gun drawn. Somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed. The screams echoed off the walls and down the corridors til he couldn't tell from which direction they eminated.

Carefully, he pushed open a door and rounded the corner, his gun leading the way. A shadowy figure stood in the corner.

"Who are you?" Spencer demanded. "What's your name?"

The screams pierced the air again. The figure tilted its head menacingly.

"Say it." The figure demanded.

"Tell me your name!?" Spencer demanded again.

The figure lunged forward.

Spencer opened his eyes, his breath caught in his throat. The familiar warmth to his right let him know Avery was still sleeping soundly. He turned his head. Her back was to him, her shoulders rising and falling with relaxed breaths.

The cell phone on Reid's side table buzzed. He picked it up and looked at the ID screen.

"Hey, Garcia. Yeah. No, it's alright I was up. What's up?" He glanced at Avery's back, the straps of her tank top draped over her shoulders. "Yeah, I'll be right in."

Hope you enjoyed this story. Stay tuned for more works following this arc.


End file.
